Mount, gainful Crinon; for to thee we give,
As thou deserv'st, the sole prerogative:
For thy divining lines have purchas'd more
Than all our prime professors got before.
Jason won much at Colchis; but thy gain
Has lin'd thy shoulders in a Swedish chain.
Rich divination! But what's knowledge worth,
If people do not credit what's set forth?
Omnia temporibus cecinit Cassandra futuris. Quæ ventura suis—via unquam credita Teucris Melitus.
This was Cassandra's loss, whom we allow
And hold a prophetess as true as thou
But not so well believ'd. Take heed, my blade,
Thy late predictions cannot retrograde,
And give thine erring notions such a check,
As they unlink that chain which decks thy neck.
Signs sometimes change their influence, we see:
I wish the like event befall not thee.
The golden number and saturnian line
Have been propitious to thee all thy time:
Thy says held oracles: thy observations
For death, war, weather, held by foreign nations
As positive maxims: yet one critical point
Will throw this artful fabric out o' joint.
Dog-days each year affords; if thou find none,
Thy fortune's clearer far than any one.
Let me then caution thee, divining Crinon,
Lest thy own bosom prove thy treach'rous Sinon,
Let not opinion make thy judgment err:
"The ev'ning conquest crowns the conqueror."
Hope of reward or one victorious field
Is no firm ground for any one to build.
May ill success clothe him with discontent,
That balanceth the cause by the event.
Next him ascend, Erigonus, whose art,
Richly embellish'd with a loyal heart,
Will not permit thy thoughts to stoop so low
As to pretend more than thy notions know,
Or can attain to. Thou hast ta'en content
With as much freedom under strait restraint,
As Pibrack in his paradox express'd,
Inwardly cheer'd when outwardly distress'd.
I have much mus'd, while thou convers'd with us
Of the gradations o' th' Celestial House,
Yet hadst none of thine own to shelter thee.
This was an humour that transported me:
To see a mind so large, and to discourse
As if he had got Fortunatus' purse!
This caus'd me think that we did greatly err
In holding thee a mere astrologer,
Though't be a sacred-secret speculation,
And highly meriting our admiration:
But rather some rare stoic, well content
With his estate, however the world went.
Yet when I saw thine artificial scheme
Exactly drawn, as none of more esteem,
I wonder'd much how such choice art could want,
Unless the whole world were grown ignorant.
I heard of late, what I did never dream,
Thy farming life had drawn thee to a team,
Preferring th' culture of an husbandman
Before a needful astrologian,
Who in this thankless age may pine and die,
Before he profit by astronomy.
For though I must confess an artist can
Contrive things better than another man,
Yet when the task is done, he finds his pains
Nought[161] but to fill his belly with his brains.
Is this the guerdon due to liberal arts,
T' admire the head, and then to starve the parts?
Timely prevention thou discreetly us'd,
Before the fruits of knowledge were abus'd.
"When learning has incurr'd a fearful damp,
To save our oil 'tis good to quench our lamp."
Rest, then, on thy enjoyments, and receive
What may preserve a life, reserve a grave.
This with convenience may supply thy store,
And lodge thee with content: what wouldst thou more?
While he who thirsts for gold, and does receive it,
Pules like a baby when he's forc'd to leave it.
For you, Liberius, I would have you look
For your improvement on your table-book;
Where you shall find how you bore once a name
Both in the rank of fortune and of fame;
But others, rising to a higher merit,
Darken'd that splendour which you did inherit,
Or those mistakes which caus'd you err so far,
As your late years have proved canicular.
To waste more paper I would never have you,
For I'm resolv'd your book will never save you,
Nor you from it receive a benefit.
Suppress, then, pray thee, thy leaf-falling wit;
Merlin's Collections will not serve thy turn,
Retire, retire, and slumber in thine[162] urn.
Dotage has chill'd thy brain: in silence sleep;
"He's wise enough that can his credit keep."
For you, Columba, and rare Peregrine,
It is your fate to nestle in a clime
Of disadvantage: Wisdom bids you build
Where you may dwell, and sow in such a field,
Where you may reap the harvest you have sown:
"Arts unimprov'd are to no purpose shown."
Those only may be truly said to know,
Whose knowledge pays their country what they owe;
And (with the bee) from labour never cease,
Till they have stor'd their hives with sweet increase.
Which thriving industry, infus'd by nature
In such a small political a creature,
Might by a native model render thee
Conducts of science in astrology:
Saltibus hirsutis haud spatiantur apes.
For she accounts it as a fruitless toil
To browse on suckets in a barren soil.
For you, Alatus, mount with airy wing,
And to [your] scatter'd nest some feathers bring:
Though popular esteem afford delight,
It cannot satisfy the appetite.
Fame is a painted meat, and cannot feed
Nor sate the stomach when it stands in need.
This was mine own condition; while I liv'd,
I to the highest pitch of fame arriv'd;
All the Rialto sounded with my praise,
Yet silence shrouded this within few days;
For after some few funeral tears were shed,
My memory died, before tears went to bed.
Yea, in my lifetime, when my state grew low,
My fame found none she would conduct me to:
And let this caution thee. Though thou swell great
In men's conceit, this will not get thee meat.
"The only means to raise friends, fame, and store,
Is to make industry thy providor."
For Atro-Lucus Serands, they be such
I would not touch them, lest I should too much
Impeach their branded fames: one word for all—
As their disgrace is great, their knowledge small:
Let these demoniacs practise less in black,
It will discolour all their almanac.
But this was not my errand. I would know
How ladies with their husbands suit below.
Those frolic girls, I mean, and of none else,
Who were induc'd by mine and Crinon's spells
[Mephistophilus appears and resolves him.
To choose strange bedfellows. Pray, tell me how,
Dear Mephistophilus, those wantons do.
Meph. All out of joint: they've left their husbands' bed.
Gal. By this it seems they were not rightly wed;
There was no justice in't: for if there had,
Should they break loose, they would be judged mad.
But now mine hour approacheth; I must pass
Down to that vault where late I lodged was.
Fix, Mephistophilus, this on that gate,
That those who knew me may collect my fate.
[Mephistophilus having fixed this inscription on the portal of the gate, they descend.